The Girl Behind the Red Door
by periwinkle fields
Summary: Set in an alternate universe, where Dany and Viserys are not the only Targaryens left in a world that is silently heading to an apocalyptic end, new characters with the blood of the dragon come to life in different islands, families and continents. The strings of destiny weave strange fates, as the end comes near and the Long Night closes in...
1. Naerel the Lysene

"This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric." Dany touched it as her brother told her. She lightly ran her hand over it and pulled away.

"Is it really mine?" she asked and her eyes went to Naerel. Naerel looked at Viserys, and nodded her head silently.

"A gift, from the Magister Illyrio", Viserys cooed while vetting the fine whispy silk. He was in high spirits tonight. Naerel had spotted that glimmer of anticipation and ambition in his lilac eyes. "The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And Illyrio promised that you will have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Tonight you must look like a princess."

Dany looked at her brother with those big, wondrous eyes full of innocence and fright, like a young doe that has smelt the hunter's scent in the air. Naerel wondered if only she could see that, or if it was only she that cared of it. Poor, unlucky Dany was sold like meat in a market. The gemstones and trinkets were spices and herbs, her hyaline dress was there to display her young and untouched body. It made her sad, watching little Dany be treated that way. It always made her sad.

"She will", Naerel finally spoke. "She will do her duty and honor our name." That made Viserys cringe a little, and Naerel saw how he didn't like it when she said _our_ and not _your_ , as if she was one of them.

Daenerys gave Naerel a hopeful look, and then returned to the soft fabric. "Why does he give us so much?" she heard her say as silent as a whisper. "What does he want from us?" Daenerys was meek and timid but she was no idiot, Naerel knew. Viserys appeared to have different thoughts. He narrowed his eyes into two dark crevices framed by the wrinkles his life's angst had given him.

"Illyrio is no fool" Viserys said, "the magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne." That was the explanation he always had to give. Naerel had once retaliated against it and said that Viserys would never return to his supposed throne. That had earned her a cussed beating. She knew, though, that it was the truth. She just never spoke her mind about it again. "Besides", he continued, "he owes the _Lysene_ a debt he must pay off."

Naerel was born in Dorne on a full moon, which was seen as an omen of good luck and purity. Yet she was raised in Lys by her affluent Lysene father, in a gilded manse close to the sea. Lysene was her Mother Tongue, she dressed in the fashions of Lys and wore her hair in it's famous ways. ' _Lys the Lovely'_ , Illyrio had said, _'and yet Naerel the Lysene is even lovelier'_. Naerel had heard rumours, that her father, the famous merchant Raanos Lyssenei, was a grandson of Irogenia of Lys and great-great-great nephew of the Black Swan of Lys. _Whoresblood_ , Viserys called it. It drove Naerel mad with anger to hear him insult her heritage with such cold satisfaction. The contempt sluiced from his mouth so often, Naerel had started to believe the things he said as true. After all, she was just a penniless Lysene, what did it matter. She was irrelevant. What did she matter.

Naerel's mind travelled to the memory of her father. He had been gone for so long, he was just a blur now. She felt guilty for not being able to remember him clearly. He was tall like the bell-towers of Norvos, broadly built with shoulders as wide as the Rhoyne. She remembered his face as withered, eroded from the sea like an unyielding head land in front of a seething storm. His eyes burned blue with youthful brilliance, and his hair was long and weavy, swept back or to the side, and it would always smell of salt and of the docks. He would always go and walk amongst the stalls and the traders, even though Naerel never had a chance of understanding why. She also remembered a canary she had. Her father had given it to her, and she had found a letter coiled around it's leg when she got it. It was not written in her father's letters, and in a language alien to her and strange. When she told him, he yanked it from her tiny hand and burned it in an angry frenzy. The canary remained, and she would sing with it all the time, and would invent tunes and songs for the two of them to whistle. How much she loved that little bird. All of that had come to a sudden end, and the canary and her father seemed so long ago, so far away, ruins of a much cherished past. Now, all that remained of Raanos Lyssenei was his vague appearance, and the image of his large back casting a giant, sheltering shadow, covering young Naerel like a cape. She decided she wouldn't think of it now, not in front of the Targaryens.

Illyrio was her father's friend, much long before his rise to golden luxuries and cunning dealings. Naerel knew almost nothing about the matter, only that her father was a captain in Pentos when Illyrio was poor and homeless. When Naerel was born, Raanos had said that a flute made of dragonbone was sent to her, so that her wetnurse would teach her to play. She did not remember how, but she knew it was from that distant, Pentoshi man who somehow knew her but she not him. She had heard a servant whisper to another that she reminded them of the Bard Prince, beyond the Narrow Sea, be it her voice or how much she read. Viserys would always have something to say to that, and so would Daenerys, given the chance. Even Daenerys would scold her, following the example of her brother. She hated her when Dany did that, and when she remembered what other sad tidings those two brats caused, she hated the name _Targaryen_ even more. She was jealous of them and she feared them, too. 'If you don't listen to me' her nurse would say, 'the devil-dragon will come and hurt you'. Naerel would immediately freeze at the thought and do what the nurse would say. The Bard Prince, the Mad King and all of those people where the devil-dragon. That Rhaegar… she spat on his name. She didn't want that name Viserys and Dany carried so nobly. It was already too much that she was dragged along Rhaegar's siblings, in the dirt of exile and the shame of begging.

When she woke from her thoughts, she saw Viserys eclipsing Daenerys with his body, and half-whispering things to her. Her hair stood from her skin, and felt her blood thick and sluggish in her veins. She always turned away. She was taught to always turn away.

Viserys turned around , his lilac eyes reached hers and she remained still. He changed faces so quickly, it was like he wore a mask. Naerel didn't like it. He walked ahead of her. "Come ,wife" he commanded, and Naerel followed him the way a dog follows its master.

"Must I be there tonight?" Naerel said as she followed her husband. Viserys seemed preoccupied and did not listen. "I don't want to come tonight", she spoke.

Viserys stopped and turned around. "What do you mean?"

"It is not my place to come", Naerel said.

"Mmm…" Viserys nodded, "stay here then."

She waited for them to depart on their litters to Khal Drogo's manse. She watched them part, the slaves carrying them away under the light of torches and the new moon that hang between the indigo clouds. When they were far away, she got up from the window and left her room.

She walked the corridors with haste, impatience quickened her heel. Her heart beat fast as she made her way to the marble staircase. She held up her gown as she descendent the steps. She wore an ivory silk, decorated with a net of white crystals that shimmered as she moved. The neckline plunged deep and revealed her full cleavage that she perfumed with essence of water-lily from Yi Ti. From the waist down, the ivory transcended into a deep royal blue, embroidered with pearls and small coins from Lys, mimicking the elegance of the night's sky. She had taken off her slippers and her silver bangles so that she would not make any noise. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she pulled off the large golden pin that kept her rope-braid coiled and let her milky-blonde hair cascade down her shoulders and to her hips in wavy locks that shone like platinum and gold in the light of the torches.

"I thought you'd never come" the bravo said. Naerel heard him approach.

"I am here now" she said and felt a wetness between her thighs. She quickly unlaced the shoulders of her dress, and the man stepped forward and started unbuttoning his shirt. Naerel let her gown drop to her feet, leaving her naked, her round breasts covered by her long silky hair. The bravo took off his shirt and tunic and took her in his arms and softly brushed his lips on hers. She felt his warm skin against hers as he kissed her neck and she ran her long fingers through his unkept, dark hair. Naerel moaned and sighed and whispered the bravo's name in the dark. _Aermidon, Aermidon._ She gasped as he thrust himself in her slowly, as he pinned on the dank, cellar wall. The wine bottles shook and twinkled as they moved and giggled. She felt happy, ecstatic; she called out in pleasure.

" _Ahh!"_

 _"_ _Shh!_ " the bravo playfully hushed her, "they will hear us."

"I don't care" she whispered with a smile.

When they finished, they lay on their fallen clothes, with love's dew on their rosy skin. Naerel felt like she could fly every time she was with him, her heart's sorrows all seemed magically mended as if her bravo was a blessed charm. He was a handsome lad, three years older than her, tall and with a swordsman's body. His skin was tanned from training in the sun, and freckles where peppered all over his shoulders and his torso.

"I told you to shave that beard" Naerel said.

"That I will not do" he said and stood straight.

"It tickles me" she rolled over and sat on her belly, her hair poured down between her shoulders. She giggled. "I know you keep it short, but it scratches my face and my neck and my…"

Aermidon rose and put on his trousers. "Enough about my beard" he said, "I brought you something."

"Is it a present?" her eyes widened.

"Almost" he said, and from a brown bag somewhere near by, he drew a dagger.

Naerel's excitement flushed away from her face. "What is that?" she asked silently.

"It is what we talked about" Aermidon said, "you know that I can't do it."

She rose and started clothing herself. She would not be having that talk now or ever again. She wanted to get out of there.

"What are you doing?" Aermidon said, "Naerel, you know you have to do this, don't walk away from me."

"You are a fool" she said as she slipped into her dress, "and I am a fool as well for… everything"

"You know this deed must be done, my love. You know what kind of man he is, and you know, just as well as I, that his blood must be spilt so that we can be together and ride away. I can see it in your blue eyes how you hate him." Aermidon looked deep into her eyes and Naerel felt her heart melt. He slipped his fingers around her waist and brought her close to his warm chest. She felt heart beat slow and steady, and he softly kissed her forehead and smelt her hair. She felt desire for him smoothly kindle in her core. Whenever she was near his gentle touch, she forgot how much she needed his sweet breath cool the part of her neck under her ear, or how she wanted to be held by him. How much she wanted to feel loved.

He kissed her again, and before he slipped back into his tunic, he gave her time and day for their next rendezvous. He wore his shirt unbuttoned and his leather gloves tucked in his belt, with his sword and two scabbards in one hand. As he was about to ascend the staircase, the torchlight glowed behind him like a field of gold, and cast a long shadow that made him look black against it. "Valar Morgulis" he said in his deep voice.

"Valar Dohaeris" Naerel said, and saw he still had her periwinkles scarf wrapped around the wrist of his first sword arm. When she looked down, she saw she was holding the dagger.

"All men must die" she said to herself, as the last torch in the cellar died out.


	2. Caspar of Gulltown

of the flying falcons beyond the shiny brass roof sounded faintly as the solemn wind from the narrow arches whistled over the minty alabaster floors. The old tapestry shivered and waved against the wall. A kingdom of schist and towering rock lied below, descending and rising in the sky clouded with great silver plumes. Treacherous paths snaked up and down, the mountains' face like unyielding giants to the cold winds that pierce the flesh like ice.

"The wind blows cold" the Knight of Ninestars said and clutched at the silver hilt of his longsword. "Perhaps the Starks of Winterfell knew something before their name became a forbidden word and their ancestral sword melted into trinkets for the Lannisters."

"Easy now, good knight" Yohn Royce said in a gnarling voice like the low, throaty growling of a bear, "the Maiden's Tower is desolate and grey, yet t'is certain that in every crack and crevice in this mighty fortress, now dwells an ear or an eye, eager to report back to gods know who."

"My men scavenged the place. Your mind breeds faulty fears" he said, still looking to the blue-green mountains standing through the clouds, their peaks like floating islands in the infinite skies.

Yohn Royce turned his white-maned head with his thick thumb ready to unsheathe his black scathed shortsword. The heavy ironed door moved open.

"My lords" Lord Arryn of Gulltown said lowly, and three more men followed him into the room as close as his shadow. Lord Templeton and Lord Royce nodded, and the hushed lad of Lord Royce stepped forward, towards his father.

"T'is a treacherous collection of knights that would make the Stranger blush that marks this dawn of day" Lord Hunter said as he walked over to Lord Templeton, the knight cloaked in burgundy, black and gold.

"Indeed" said Lord Royce. "Tell me, good Arryn of Gulltown, what plot does harbor in your mind? Seven hells, if you shall put the Vale in peril, you should damn us all, and as we fall, our noble banners should follow us down the Moon Gate."

"And yet, such fate is written for us already, as long as that villain looms over us and our most loved land, with the eyes of a vulture observing juicy pray" Lord Arryn of Gulltown said. Lord Hunter was bracketed by his two sons dressed in dark grey cloaks and warm leathers, belted and strapped with steel buckles. "What realm will we give our sons to keep and daughters to walk upon? Whilst that knave whispers in Robert Arryn's sickly ear, time is ticking and soon, our ways will wither, our lands taken and the pride of the Valemen shall bite the dust."

"My lords, look to the window. Look at that field of cliff and mist." Lord Hunter said and his eyes looked to the Valley of Arryn under his bushy eyebrows. He travelled to the arch, and pointed. "There is ore and silver, jewel and in some hard places… _gold_."

The lords widened their grey eyes.

" _Gold_?" the Knight of Ninestars repeated in wonder. "How much gold?"

"Oh, my lad Symond" Lord Hunter said, "there are entire chambers under those peaks, as big as the Throne Room in the Red Keep, that glow yellow with it. There are caverns and tunnels that lead you to it under the light of torch and the leash of a marhound. A shepherd lost a lamb in there; it fell through a hole in the surface of the downhill. When he made it down, he saw the lamb had broke its neck on the rock. Yet when he looked closer, he saw the dream he landed upon, and then found his way out through the secret roads within the mountain. My men heard him blabbering on to drunks in the cheapest tavern, about how he found the inside of the Maiden's thighs. We made him draw a map. He took us there once or twice, and after we learned the way well, my man Ortor cut off his tongue."

The men looked at each other.

"If Littlefinger finds what our mountains conceal" Lord Royce said and looked at them one by one, "he shall fill his pockets with our gold and make himself the head of an army, or destroy our homeland in his villainous ways."

"It is why _we_ are going to knick it first", Arryn of Gulltown approached the other men, forming a circle around the arched window.

"And how will we do that, my lord? These are not our lands. And these taxes that so burden us with unjust weight shall multiply and devour us all." Lord Royce's face remained unimpressed and unpersuaded.

"We are honorable men, my lords. And yet, the injustices done to us go unanswered for by that cunning snake and the widow of our good Jon Arryn, that hushes us with petty commands and proves –she and her lord husband- ungallant and… unprofitable regents." Arryn of Gulltown eyed all of them.

"Here here" they all said seriously, listening to how he talked.

"As for Robert Arryn, the boy is weak and still suckles at the breast of his mad mother, drinking poison milk that shall vile his thoughts, if they aren't vile and corrupted already. I am told he takes pleasure in thinking of tossing men down the Moon Door and that when the night falls, he has animals thrown in there; passions shared by young Aerys II, I am told."

"And what do you suggest, Hugh? Rebellion?" asked one of them.

"Yes" he said confidently, "those are traitors sitting on the Weirwood Throne. Traitors to our people, to us and to the Vale of Arryn. That boy is not Jon Arryn's son, but the spawn of that lowlife, the squire boy that plays at being our Paramount. The nest of Arryn has no more eagles flying in the Eyrie, and that is whispered throughout the Seven Kingdoms, 'tis only the accent that changes as you pass through the borders. We are sworn to a fraud."

"The Arryns of Gulltown, however…" the Knight of Ninestars began "are suitable for the High Hall, isn't that what you are saying?"

Lord Arryn sighed and took off the black leather gloves coating his hands. He tucked them in his belt and touched the clasps of his cloak. "We have the name. We have the legitimacy and the coin. But we also have your friendship. We have had your love for so long now, and we cannot thank you enough, my good lords. And so, for the kindness and grace you have shown my family, rewards and gifts shall overflow your chests. There is no honor in what we scheme, and yet- where is the honor in how Lysa poisoned the wines of our late Lord Paramount? Where is the honor, my lords, in how a bastard yells us orders and _shames_ this jewel of Westeros? This magnificent Vale of Arryn that the Seven built with such adoration and care, and nursed it like their beloved infant, will crack, it's crags and shores shall weep as rogues crawl all over it like a foul epidemic."

"Here here" they said more passionately.

"I trust you, my friends. Together, we shall make this land the pride of the Seven Kingdoms once again, and the gold that will fountain down Alyssa's Tears will make Casterly Rock blush in guilt. My sons shall fight along yours, to rid ourselves of this Southern, capitolian plague that sits upon us and contaminates our spirits with ugly moods." Hugh Arryn pulled out his longsword, forged in splendid Valyrian steel, the simple hilt held by his strong hand and pointed down at the floor.

Harlan Hunter unsheathed his and placed it gently atop Hugh Arryn's. "For the eagle's Vale" he vowed.

"For the eagle's Vale" pledged Yohn Royce with a stern face. One after another, they pulled out their swords and swore an oath of alliegance to the eagles of Gulltown, Hugh and his sons, Scyor, Caspar, Theoner and Edgyr. The swords clattered, the sound buzzed with the words of their oaths. An eagle cried out in the distance as it bat its large golden wings through the clouds and the air, ascending above all else and looking down the Eyrie, circling it like a vulture. The wind brushed through the forest trees as the eagle sat atop of the keep, crowning it with its wings and body, and gazed upon the never ending valley of shards of rock and thick evergreen forests. The lords would surely be forgiven for their dishonorable intentions by the mercy of the Seven. That would be if some of them still believed in them.

Jon Arryn had died suddenly in a night where lightning and thunder ruled the sky. Away from home in King's Landing, Lysa Arryn and her son fled in the night like thieves. Before long, Petyr Baelish, or Petyr the Whoremonger as the knights of the Vale called him, was at their heel, following them after two days. The knights and lords watched them with narrow grey eyes with a falcon's grit, as the dowager Lady of the Vale became Regent and wed Baelish, who was no higher than an aspiring commoner. Slights bred like mice, dishonoring sons of gracious houses and building a wall of liars, flatterers and actors around their court. Rumours spread that the Lord Protector was a Lannister spy, that he bedded highborn maidens promised to other men. But the talk that spread the quickest, was that he had spilt poison in dead Jon Arryn's wine so that he could bed his wife and take his land. Other's said that Robert Arryn wasn't even from the seed of his mother's husband, but of that of that devil. Hugh Arryn of Gulltown knew very well of his character and his intentions, and there was a small part in his heart that feared the thoughts and evil plans that lurked behind those deceitful, leering eyes. He had made sure a distraction would flare up somewhere for him to send his spies to and keep preoccupied with, and yet he was sure that man knew where they were and what they were saying. When they exited the tower, he would be out there, waiting, and would have them beheaded there on the spot. It was foolish that his lord friends had brought their sons to listen. His sons where away and his only daughter was safe in Gulltown to everyone's eyes, but was actually hidden in the North with her aunt Lady Ravynna. His beautiful daughter Valianne, with her bright blue eyes and light brown hair, was his life's treasure. He could see her now, riding with her brothers on her umber colored mare. His sons Scyor, Theoner and Edgyr, with their light blue kirtles and silver cloaks laughing and jesting while hunting with their longbows. And Caspar, riding separated from them. Would he see them again, he wondered. They knew what to do if his time came sooner than what he expected. If he met his death when he walked through that door.

A shadow shifted behind the door, and Hugh Arryn felt his heart slow down. Soft clamer of steel murmured through the door. They had come.

Hugh Arryn whispered something to Harlan Hunter. He held his sons near, when the door slammed open and the guards of the Eyrie marched in. The captain of the guard told them they were arrested for treason, but the lords wielded their swords to cut them in half. Clashes and shouts sounded from the tower, and through the struggle, Hugh Arryn could not find the Lord Protector. _Coward_ , he thought as he fought. Harlan Hunter's sons ran to another wooden door, but when it opened, more guards barged in. His youngest fell on one of their spears, impaling him through his ribs. The older fought with his sword and fought on. One by one they fell with the old, glorious realm of the falcons in their shutting eyes, and the riches it hid in its land like a treasure chest. So many thoughts stormed his mind then. So many emotions. Pride, fear, anger, courage, nostalgia, sadness, guilt. Guilt for little Caspar. He saw him then. He was there, when he was young and he was a child, trapped in the swamp after falling with his horse. The horse sank slowly and Caspar called for him, _father, father_ , reaching out his little rosy hand. Hugh had done nothing, and simply looked at him with wide eyes, not believing the words that came of Caspar's mouth. _Father, father_. It was when the boy's shoulders where submerged in the mud and the horse drowned, when his men had found them and rescued the young lord. But it didn't matter, for it was like Caspar had remained in the swap and drowned along his horse. What a monster had Hugh been to him, how could he bare fabricated affection to him, when his little boy had forgiven him in a heartbeat. He was all he could think of at his last moments. His little lord that he hadn't held as his in truth. What could he be doing now? Perhaps studying by the flickering light of a candle in some forgotten library, away from his brothers. That made Hugh smile. If he survived this, he would honor his son by being a better father and that was a sacred promise he would keep. He saw the swamp again, and heard Caspar's pleas again. Only this time, he saw himself descent from his white stallion and set his leather boots deep in the mud. He walked to him, slowly and carefully, stretching his hand to his boy.

A blade slashed through his calf and Hugh lost his weight. Suddenly, the boy was out of reach. Hugh collapsed and fell on his knees like a pilgrim. He murmured his son's name in silent agony as he saw him sink like a young boat in the thick putrid mire. And then, he was gone. An arrow pierced his thigh as he tried to get back up again, and so he fell again on his knees. The floor was flooded with blood, the corpses of his friends slowly losing their warmth and color. A sword ran through his small belly and he gasped as he felt the steel slither out of his body. Then another blade cut him deep through the shoulder. Then another. And another.

Caspar of Gulltown heard an eagle shriek from far away, a sad and desperate cry, and looked out of his window, to the clear sky above Oldtown.


	3. Naerel the Lysene II

Naerel sat in the window and looked out to the road with the dagger in her hands, waiting for her husband to return. She had barely touched her food. The dried apricots and figs with baked spinach bread topped with cheese and garlic lured in flies as they sweated their grease onto the carved brass platter. The night was long and time stretched like gum. Naerel imagined how she would do it. A cut to the throat would suffice, yet the more she thought of it, the more she wanted to fill his body with stabs. She sat there and waited and waited, until the skin around her eyes started to tingle of exhaustion. _Tonight he dies_ , she thought.

" _My lady"_

Naerel turned around.

 _"_ _My lady"_ she heard the loud whispers repeat in Valyrian, calling her from the shadows.

"Yes?" Naerel said, "What is it? What do you want?"

 _"_ _My lady_ "

"Show yourself" Naerel said sharply.

A cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, humble and smiling as held its palms up, begging as she approached. Naerel could not tell it from a man or woman. It was just a thing approaching.

"Gentle lady" said the ugly thing, a sweetness in its voice that had an imploring edge. "Please, help me."

"Come no further" Naerel said and stood from her seat in the window. It was late and Illyrio was gone, his guards were asleep and she didn't know how that creature had come in here. There must have been an open door somewhere. She thought of the thugs that could sneak in through it and her heart raced. "What do you want? Is it money?"

"My lady" the moving shadow said "I am Vourio's kin, the boy you took to your care when he was taken ill. The one you healed with your grace and generosity."

"Vourio the slave boy?" Naerel asked and saw the creature had rotten teeth, some having fallen off. "How did you get in here? _Come no further!_ "

The figure halted. Vourio was a Norvosi boy who was captured by the Dothraki and given to Illyrio as a gift along others, when he was but a babe who could barely walk. Vourio was a very clever boy, who could play with numbers and words the way other boys his age played with wooden swords. Illyrio had taken him under his wing as some sort of secretary. The boy worked in his office apartments, and would wear finer clothes than the other slaves, like satin shawls. His collar would be decorated with a string of pearls. Vourio was suddenly given to one of Illyrio's rich friends. Vourio hadn't even said farewell to the other slaves. But before he was given away, much before that, Vourio had fallen ill with a bad fever. Naerel had found it in her heart to help the lad recover. She recalled his appearance. He was skinny, dark-haired and olive skin, his hazel eyes drooped down like a tired puppy, with long lashes.

"My lady, he is ill again, but this time he will not recover. He has been with his fever for a week, boiling in his own sweat. He is calling for you in his torment." The creatures eyes where jet black in the candle light, and tears glistened on her cheeks.

"Where is he kept?" Naerel asked. She had no right to meddle with another man's property and that she knew as well as any other man. But she loved that boy. Her heart raced as she imagined the child suffering.

"To the docks. I will take you to him." Naerel got her shawl quickly and followed the cloaked person.

" _Wait_ " she said. She saw she had the dagger still in hand and hesitated. After some seconds thought, Naerel tucked it under her pillow on her bed.

The unlikely pair went off into the moonless night. Everything was black as pitch, the darkness so deep Naerel felt as if it was sucking her further in it. Her eyes hurt when they met the fire of a lamp post or a brazier. Pentos wondered a labyrinth after nightfall, all the manses and shops, the taverns and the banks were walls to an intricate web of pathways. Naerel heard crying children and the barking of stray dogs, and then saw a brothel, its doors were opened and hurled a yellow-green burnish to the stone roads and the smithy across the road. Laughter , loud music and the musky smell of cheap wine quarrelled with the beating of steel across the street and the waves of heat from the pyre of the smith. The brothels counted more than a dozen on the docks since sailors and merchants who landed there brought heavy purses with them. _We must be getting near_ , she thought in angst and felt her pulse flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. If she was gone for too long, Viserys would be angry if he returned and did not find her there. She became nervous as she felt Vourio coming closer to her. He scarcely spoke, but when he did, he would make her laugh loudly and for a long time. Viserys didn't like him and Dany was too shy to enjoy his words. He was such a clever boy. Now, he would not be able to put his sharpened wit to us. Men cannot move their mouths and talk in the grave.

Naerel tried to imagine of what would await her upon her arrival. She was not much of a witness to death , not when it came to children. She knew babes still at their mother's milk died all the time, yet she had never seen a dead one. In Lys, a servant girl's newborn had perished on the edge of dawn's sword, his soul reaped so quickly the whole house was overwhelmed and shocked. She remembered the confused, frightened and curious child she was that morning as she heard the young mother's cries sound through the walls. The cook had muttered to the gardener that Raanos Lyssenei was the father, but when Naerel briefly looked around the crowded kitchens where the servant was mourning with her dead babe in arm, she didn't see him. She didn't see the baby either, as people where in the way, and when she tried to walk through them to see, her wet-nurse sloppily picked her up like a sack of grain and took her to the furthest tower in the manse. Naerel asked questions that were never answered, questions

that she still had. Questions that could be answered now. She grew more tense. She closed her eyes and drew the same image in a Pentoshi shanty.

"These aren't the docks" she stopped and told the cloaked figure. She then recalled that there are no smithies in the road she always took to the docks.

Naerel heard the cracking of bones and saw the cloaked figure turn its head into an un-human way. It's back moved like the body of an eel, and its face became an abomination to look upon, with scales and blood washing down its empty cheeks. Two yellow dots peaked from the hollows in its eyes, and a wide smile like that of a skull's showed fangs and teeth that looked like black diamonds.

"No they are not" it said and Naerel heard an alien voice say. Howling of wolves and the outcry of dragons haunted the air. Naerel dropped to her knees and covered her ears in fear. A thousand blades flashed grey when unsheathed in a circle that resembled a cage around her. All said their swords where red, but they were blunted and dull. One hit her on her head, another at her leg and another at her shoulder. Her blood ran down her ears, and her head ached as if pierced by a crown of thorns. More blood trickled down her face, on her nose and close to her eyes, dripping on from her chin. Her palms started pouring pools of blood, washing the road she knelt on the ground.

"No! Please!" she pleaded as she saw an executioner draw near. She did not recognize his likeness, yet she felt that she had always known him. He came nearer and nearer, and she grew colder and colder. "I am only fourteen!"

Silence fell like a pair of fingers putting out a flame. She was blind as a bat in that pitch-dark world she had found herself in. She heard the executioner's footsteps approach like deathly curse in the night. Naerel felt dizzy and soon her head met the ground. She saw the strangely familiar face from below.

"It's you" she said, mysteriously understanding what was going on, as if some force had murmured it in her ear long, long ago. A bitter misery crept like vile poison around her heart and lips. "Go on then."

"It must be done" the executioner said, and punched her heart in half with his weapon. Wolves jumped from the dark, stags and lions and thorn-vines hissed against the ground as they leaped from their dark dwellings. A burning sensation raged through her body and flames jumped out from her wounded heart.

Naerel woke covered in sweat. She saw that she was in her window, her platter now cold.

She looked down from her window and saw the torches the slaves carried light up the way for the litters. Viserys stepped off his and walked to the opened doors, walking ahead of Illyrio who wobbled off his litter, tipsy and laughing. Daenerys followed while holding her hands together, the sound of her heavy jewellery clattered loudly as she walked behind Illyrio. Naerel moved away and put her back to the wall around the window. She breathed heavily and quickly. What was she doing? Was she really going to do it? When Viserys walked in, she would wait until he undressed and came to bed, and then- when he would be fast asleep- she would climb on top of him and like a black widow would she kill him. Her horse was saddled and reined. She could ride to Myr and change her name. She wouldn't have to endure his touch any longer. No one would miss a Beggar King. She felt like she could do anything.

Naerel looked in the mirror. Her hair flowed down her body, over her breasts covered with her light silk nightgown that held her graceful body in a tight embrace. Her skin glowed with the vitality of youth and health. She had no time to think of that horrid dream she saw. Viserys was ascending the steps and walking to the bedchamber. She perfumed herself with his favourite scent, so that he might be more wanton when he came near her. She unbuttoned the first three clasps on her nightgown's neckline, so that her rich bosom would tempt him, and swept her hair to the side. She quickly lay on the bed, stretched her legs and rose the edges of the gown to her thighs. Naerel closed her eyes, pretending to have fallen in deep sleep, as her husband closed the door behind him.

Her lids still gently touching her waterlines, she felt Viserys' hand travel up her leg. She felt his touch go up to her thigh and waist. She opened her eyes as he kissed her, and did not close them as he did. Her heart stopped as she remembered the dagger. What would she end his life with? Her eyes nervously looked around her trying to find it. Her hands ached with having held it so tightly for so long, and yet she couldn't find its shine in the room. Perhaps it had fallen down the window and stuck itself between the ceramics that slanted down from where she sat. But she would have seen it when she had awakened from her sleep. She thought of the nightmare as Viserys kissed her and went on top of her. It felt so real, and yet so fake. She wanted it to be fake, for it had scared her so much, she felt half her soul had left her when she wok into reality. How she bled and wept, and how eerily familiar was that face that cut into her heart. Naerel felt dizzy, as if half of herself was numb or in a dream. Her mind felt like stirring glue, her lips hot and dazed as Viserys kissed her neck that was being kissed by another man before some hours. She wondered if he could tell, and then felt his hands all over her. Disgust filled her, and bile bubbled within her stomach as she felt him enter her. _The dagger, where is the dagger_. Her arms could barely move, as if her muscles were melting snow. She felt herself be like air, unreal and feather-light, dreamy and floating into nothingness. But her husband felt real, flesh and bone. It was like she was drunk on sleep, like a night flower star struck from the moon and the eternal purple darkness that cloaked the sky. Her bones felt drugged, soft like pudding or fresh bread. The walls appeared to be shedding tears or melting or both. _What was in that spinach bread_ , she thought and let out a moaning laugh. But where was the dagger. The dagger. Aermidon's dagger. The dagger he gave her to kill her husband. Aermidon's dagger.

After he had her, Viserys rolled over naked, with his hair loose, and fell asleep. Naerel still felt like the world was playing tricks with her, laughing at her as it danced and turned and swam around her eyes. She felt like she couldn't move, like her legs and arms had rebelled against her and dethroned her, like her uncle. _Her uncle, uncle, uncle_ , her voice echoed and giggled in her head.

 _"_ _What the … fuck… is wrong with… me"_ she slowly whispered to herself, stretching out the words as her mouth slowly gave up on her. _"Am I… dying…?"_ She heard Viserys sigh and shift next to her. It felt like everything was vibrating, bouncing up and down, yet all was still. Everyone was asleep. It was very late. The crickets were the only ones that stayed up till such an hour. Time had no measure now. Minutes and seconds stretched and boiled and sped up and slowed down. She lay there still, afraid to close her eyes. The sun started coming out, almost immediately after Viserys had fallen asleep. Or was it much, much later? No, it was just now. Naerel could not make her mind about it. _The dagger, you fool_ , she told herself. She stretched her hand under the pillow and giggled a malicious snicker as she found it laying there. Why was she giggling? It all seemed so strange, how everything was… _glowing_ and _shivering_ … it wasn't even cold. It was warm like the steaming pits of Hell. Naerel pulled out the dagger from under the pillow, like a puppet being pulled by strings. She threw herself straight, and climbed over him. She sat on the space between his bellybutton and his crotch, and saw the sunlight of early dawn falling on him, finding him still asleep. Naerel clutched the dagger with her two hands. She looked at his neck, his collarbones, his sad face when he slept. It was as if you could tell the shame and sadness coiled up inside his heart and gut from the way he rested his brow and mouth when he was in deep sleep. Naerel's hands rose, as if Aermidon was there with her, controlling her. Her hands rose higher, and she realized she didn't want to do this. Even higher her hands rose, and she felt Viserys breathe deeply and reach his arm to where she would have slept. What was she doing. Higher the dagger went.

And then, it _dropped_.


End file.
